Title: Playing Doctor

Author: Spiritbearr

Summary: What is it they say? 'The doctor is often the worst patient?' Leonard McCoy is not the exception to the rule. Jim gets to experience a role reversal.

Warnings: Truthfully? I can't think of any. This is meant to be a light hearted, sweet fic with a hint of character study. There might be some light language. Maybe?

A/N: Still unable to update The Trouble With, uh, Trejjions?, but it shouldn't be much longer, folks. I just have no internet access on my PC or way to recover the chapter from my main computer to my laptop. One or he other should be resolved soon enough. While I wanted to start on The Ghost and Mr. Kirk, a few people commented that they were rather eager for this particular work, so here you go. For being such great reviewers! *Loves ALL of you*

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Playing Doctor

McCoy sneezes.

It is slight, barely audible, but it makes Kirk's head come up, tip to one side. "Bless you. Again. And, just for the future, bless you. That's the fifth time in as many minutes, Bones." He drawls. "You okay?"

"Fine." McCoy growls irritably, but he does not look fine. He looks pale, and the bags under his eyes are accentuated. He's wrinkled, rumpled, and slumping over the table where they are eating lunch; or rather, Spock and Jim are eating lunch- some strange bright red fruit Jim doesn't know and a turkey sandwich, respectively- and McCoy is rather uncharacteristically pushing his salad around with his fork and looking at it like it might bite back.

Spock and Jim glance at each other, one's eyebrow to his hairline, the other smirking. "Okay," Jim says, "you're fine." And he goes back to his sandwich. It is Spock who casually reaches out to steady McCoy's shoulder as the man lists, and Jim tries very hard not to laugh into his coffee as McCoy startles. He pushes himself upright, glaring daggers at Jim.

"Don't you two have better things to do then torment me?" McCoy grouses, shoving the chair back and grabbing his tray. His voice is raspy and his southern drawl is so accentuated that he's hard to understand. They are used to Scott and Chekov, though, and in comparison this is nothing.

And he coughs, painfully, forced o grip the chair to steady himself. Jim is leveling him with a steady, unwavering Oh Really? Stare, and Spock, hands steepled in front of him, has that not smile hiding somewhere in his eyes.

"Mr. Spock," Jim begins, never once pulling his gaze away from McCoy, who is apparently starting to feel a little-well, squirmy, for lack of a better word, and is fidgeting slightly which Jim thinks is only fair, since McCoy is one of the only people who can stare him down, usually. " do you think our well educated, intelligent ship's surgeon, brought aboard one of only twelve starships- and not only that, but the Enterprise, a very special lady with a very special responsibility- a man who knows his job and his duty, and a man who knows how easily four hundred plus people could spread an illness among themselves with such close, constant contact in a confined area, would attempt to do his job as a CMO while sick himself, do you?" There is exaggerated, feigned shock and horror in Jim's voice, and he sounds a little like a shocked lady in the eighteen hundreds who needs to fan herself. Not that high pitched, of course, because then it might be Jim, not McCoy, who should take a visit to sickbay. Just in case, you know.

Spock's head lifts slightly, and in a way that demonstrates just how contaminated he must be from his extended experience with humans, plays along in the driest, most Vulcan manner possible. "From experience with your ship's surgeon, Captain, I can say he is a classic example of an overly-emotional, completely irrational human prone to lapses in both judgment and logic. However skilled he is, and undeniably intelligent, I can not say with any great certainty that he would treat his own illness the way he might treat another crew member with the same said illness. In fact, I believe there is a ninety percent chance that he would ignore said symptoms in favor of maintaining his station."

"Now wait just one darn minute, both of you-"

"Really?" Jim interrupts sharply, and there is laughter in his eyes but his lips are thin and compressed. Not Happy. "How strange, considering his absolutely dictatorial attitude about remaining not only in sickbay or confined to our quarters while ill or injured, but in bed."

"Indeed. As I have said, completely illogical, and not a little hypocritical."

McCoy turns to both of them, hand white-knuckled with anger on the back of the chair. "I am fine and if I wasn't, I would be confining myself to my quarters. When I am sick, I will. For now, I am still your medical officer, Jim, and I think I know more about it then you do."

"He's sick." Jim says, stage-whispering to Spock, rather then address the tone of voice or words. "Bones complains I'm bad when I'm sick, but he's a porcupine when he doesn't feel good."

Spock, amusingly, seems to understand the reference.

"I am not-"

"-as bad as you always growl about Spock and me being? I beg to differ."

"Sick."

"Why yes, Bones, I think you are."

"James Tiberius-" A cough interrupts him, and Bones is suddenly forced to sit down as his world spins wildly. Jim places his hands on the man's shoulders, instantly up out of his own chair, speaking his name in gentle concern, all teasing and play gone. When he gets his breath back, Spock is just in front of him, extending a cup which he takes gratefully- tea, steaming and hot- and Jim is tugging him upright. "Quarters, Bones. Go to your quarters and stay there."

"I'm-"

"Do I have to make it an order?"

"No, sir." Bones grips, the use of he sir very obviously embittered.

"Good." Jim lets go, and McCoy pushes upright, weaving slightly. "Gonna make it?"

"Don't baby me, Jim." He growls in warning. "I'm not an invalid."

Jim glances at Spock, helpless exasperation in his eyes. "Alright, alright, put the claws away. Spock." Jim gathers his tray and jerks his head back to the hall. But as McCoy leaves, his hazel eyes never once drift from the doctor's form.

"I'll go later and make sure he's not dead." Jim says, as they dispose of the remains of food.

"Humans," Spock comments, "are very odd. Doctor McCoy knows what pushing an ill body causes, and frequently expresses his exasperation with any patients who perceive themselves healed before he does. And yet he shows the same, single minded refusal to admit injury or sickness as I have often seen you display."

Jim slants him a look. "Not just me." He returns, good-naturedly enough. "Bones is stubborn, Spock, I think you'd notice that by now. Besides, 'doctors make the worst patients', haven't you ever heard that?"

"Human colloquialisms are not something I spend a great amount of time familiarizing myself with, Captain."

Jim gives him another look, half amused and half tolerant. "Yes, well, unfortunately, we spend a 'great amount of time' speaking in them, Mr. Spock."

"Yet another aspect of humanity I have come to adapt to."

"Well, anyway, it may be colloquial, but it's true. Doctors don't usually make good patients, least of all doctors like Bones. He's stubborn, irritable, and independent. And a workaholic, on top of it." Jim says, and really, he's the last person that has the right to accuse anyone else of being at least three of the above. Sometimes, all four, actually. "We're going to have to tie him to the bed. And I don't necessarily mean that colloquially."

________________________________________________________________________________

It is later that evening. The U.S.S. Enterprise moves gracefully through space, on course without any incident (yet) and no excitement (for now.) In fact, it is so calm that the captain of the ship almost wishes for Klingon ships to appear out of a rip in space and begin attacking just to give him something to do besides make sure everyone is doing their job properly and look bored in he captain's chair. (Not that he's trying to look bored. He's trying to look interested in whatever it is Spock is telling him, but frankly his mind is more with his ill best friend. The conversation was interesting, at the start; and any other day he'd be happy to listen. Now, though, between his sheer restless boredom and his concern for his best friend, it's hard to focuse.

Spock tips his head, lacing his hands behind his back, not in the least surprised when Jim finally stands, announces to no one in particular that Mr. Sulu has the conn, and marches off he bridge, very obviously expecting Spock to follow. He's not disappointed, of course. The pair make their way to Bone's quarters, where Jim holds up a hand and buzzes, rather then just walking in. There is no answer, and when he tries again, again there is no anwser; so he finally just walks in, the way Spock was going to anyway.

Instantly, he's torn between empathy and laughter.

He can't see Bones. There is merely a huddled lump of miserable bad temper in the middle of the bed, coughing and wheezing pathetically.

"Computer," Jim says, when he can speak without chuckling and feeling like a horrible person, "raise the tempeture of the room four degrees, please." Because it's freezing in here, and he's willing to bet Bones passed out before he thought to do it.

Bones stirrs, under his blanket.

"Jim?" He asks, pathetically, and he sounds hoarse and raspy, with that accent lingering helplessly. "Wha's-"

"You, doc, are sick." Jim drawls, as if they had no just had the fight over just this very subject, "and Spock and I came to make sure you hadn't drowned in the shower."

"Captain, I do not belive it possible-"

"I know, Mr. Spock, it's a joke." Kind of.

Jim moves to gently tug back the blanket, the back of his hand brushing over his friend's forhead. "Bones, you're burning up," He hisses, amazed that his friend has let himself get in such a condition. "Spock, help me get him down to sickbay."

"No." Bones groans, clearly not wanting to move. He tugs the blankets back up, pushing Jim's hand away.

"Bones," Jim sits on the edge of the bed. "You'd have had us chained to a sickbay bed if we were in the shape you are."

McCoy groans, eyes closed as his head tosses on the pillow, a weak 'no'. "You two have a job to do, go do it." He groans out, pushing Jim's hand away. "I'll give myself a hypo soon as th' room stops spinning."

Jim smirks, and Spock tips his head slightly. "Doctor, if your balance is so badly distorted, to allow you to attempt to medicate yourself would be highly irresponsible."

Bone's glare is too foggy to be any real threat. "It's not rocket science, Spock, I am perfect capable of-" A sneeze cuts him off mid-sentence, and Jim, with a smile as innocent as a kitten in a ball of yarn, hands him a tissue. McCoy takes it with a glare.

"If you're worried about me, send a nurse in." He mutters, burying his head into the pillow and blindly tossing the tissue. Jim narrowly avoids taking it in the chest, and Spock offers a distasteful eyebrow when it hits the floor. Jim gives him a well I'm not picking it up sort of glare, and if Spock had been more human he may very well have rolled his eyes as he stands, delicately picks up the tissue between thumb and forefinger, and tosses it into the appropriate receptacle.

"Bones, you're my friend, and you're sick." Jim says, humor gone from his face. His hand strokes through McCoy's damp hair, and the doctor practically purrs under the touch. With a chuckle, Jim keeps doing it.

"Don' wan' move. Let me die in peace, Jim."

He Captain snorts a laugh, and from where he's reseating himself, Spock accidentally on purpose kicks Jim in the ankle in reprimand. Jim whines like a wounded dog, Spock pretends he has no idea why Jim is acting like he was just kicked on purpose, because obviously that would be a highly emotional thing to do, therefore, not possible for Spock, and Bones groans at both of the clowns to get the hell out of his room.

"Captian," Spock offers, "may I suggest if Doctor McCoy can not go to sickbay, we bring sickbay to him?"

Jim looks up, and even though he is not nearly so eloquent with an eyebrow as his wo companions, he gets his message across pretty neatly. They are not getting the hell out, which is all Bones knows, and he groans again, which makes him cough.

"Spock," Jim says, as Bones begins to hack helplessly, "That is a very good idea."